Jollum looked up at the ceiling of his tent office from the crook of his hammock, the letter in his right hand swinging over the edge and brushing the floor. The sickness still rattled in his chest, making every breath an effort to ignore the taste of blood. He leaned over the edge of the hammock to cough the contents of his lungs into a spittoon. Looking into the foul contents of the spittoon, he wondered if he would ever cough himself into a state like this: all red and gooey with saliva. He wiped the spit from his lip with his sleeve and considered the back of his left hand.
His hand still bore the coarse hair of a Halfling, but the hand it sprouted from belied its age. Cracked from overwork and wrinkled from premature aging--a hard life he'd tell the curious--the palms of Jollum's hands read like the rampant squiggles of an Elven inventory list. The fine jacket sleeve that covered his arm was a mockery of what he aspired to be, the drying spit notwithstanding. Jollum sat up and drew the sleeve closer to his eyes, looking closer at what he really had become. So many years under Blackheart's yoke had taken its toll, and she collected the fee in his lifeblood hand over fist.
He should have never betrayed them. Had he stayed true to his job, Jollum thought, he'd not be a walking wreck of a man. To walk through the valley of the shadow of Death was one thing; to set up a homestead in its belly was another thing entirely.
A clank at the gate of the construction site pulled Jollum away and he stuck his head out. He saw the back of a worker hefting a sack over his shoulder. The sack clanked a bit much for his liking, so he called out to the worker. The worker turned and faced the foreman, unsurprised at the identity of the porter.
"Rashad," Jollum said. "What's with the bag?"
"I'm moving, chief. I found someplace else to stay."
A sad look came over the foreman's face as he stated more than asked, "You're leavin' us, lad."
Rashad smirked and said, "No, no. I'm just moving to a different place in town."
"No, you don't understand. You are leaving us."Jollum held up the letter. "You've been relieved of duty, responsibility and pay from Black Spade Construction Company. I'm sorry to say."
"Y-you?e getting rid of me? Why?"
"It's not me that's relieved you, although your constant talking during the workday gave me pause as to whether I should keep you against the order. You're a good worker when you're silent, Rashad," Jollum said. "I'd keep you if there were no problems, but this comes from Blackheart the Benefactor herself. Take a look."
Snatching the letter from hairy hands, Rashad looked at the words and the signature. It was all in Common, yet signed with a seal of a trisected heart in black ink. This woman is playing with my livelihood, Rashad thought. Seeing the look on his worker's face, Jollum said, "This is your last day so I'll try to give you some kind of parting bonus, alright?"
"Fine." Rashad stomped off to the back and placed his stuff by the slate deposits and he began to pace. That blasted necromancer's got this town locked down tighter than a dungeon, he mulled. Rashad came to the conclusion that this whole situation wasn't worth his time. He needed time to think on things and he couldn't do that when the undead threaten his very existence. A solution came into his mind as he looked up at Barcrab working on the western wall. Just like the brick that fell from his ruddy claw, Rashad would run away.
That's it: run away. No more dealing with that misandrist shrew, the undead, or this screwed up barter system that's made this crappy town even crappier than it is. If the great Benefactor wants me gone, so be it; I can go back to Miniga--hell, even Sannohe--anytime I want to. I won't even have to work a job I'm not properly qualified for; I can go back to adventuring…
Dammit. Adventuring. The very same thing that got me here in the first place, the same thing that got Sa-ren killed; all of it just a screwed up whirlpool of--of--
Rashad leaned against a nearby wall and beat on it with his fist as he looked up at the sky. He had enough of the world, its madness. All that he had known about his abilities he called into question. Was he really an adventurer worthy of the Rock Sword he was given? To think: the world before me, a magic sword in my sack and all I can come up with is running away.
A low growl formed in his throat as he clenched his fists. I'm not running from this. I've faced killer robots from the stars, Insectoids and lived through a war; one woman will not stand in the way of my path. Rashad walked away from the wall, his head and hands filled with new purpose. His mind was so focused on what he was gonna do as a party to last night's agreements, that he didn't even hear Wyle approach.
"Hey man. Something's going down on the street," the carpenter reported. "Looks like the hoods are taking people from wherever they are. They ain't being nice about it, either."
"The Hells is going on out there?" Rashad shot back.
"I don't know. Cyan's at the gate with Jollum and Barcrab and they can see it all going on from there. Let's go see, man; get your stuff!" Picking up his sack, Rashad caught up to Wyle by the time he reached the gate. Sidling up to the wooden fence next to Barcrab, he held the sack close to him to minimize the rattling as he leaned over and looked out the gate.
The black-hooded ghouls were out in force, grabbing people from their homes and businesses. The shopkeeper Kehlin was pulled from the general store, screaming about how he didn't do anything. The ghouls gave no quarter and tossed him into a waiting wagon. More ghouls came into the middle of town and began to ramp up their search for people. Doors were kicked in and windows bashed to get at the people hiding inside. Men, women and children were rounded up and placed into the wagon. A team of ghouls pulled the wagon away from the center of town to the south--towards Blackheart Estates.
In the midst of all the chaos, Rashad spied a single figure undisturbed by the commotion. She meandered to and fro to dodge the busied ghouls, struggling to stay on her own feet. With weary eyes and a pale complexion, she looked up from the ground with eyes of the lightest green.
"Inia," Rashad said, "By Toren, she's out there!"
He made a move to head out in the center of town, but Cyan held him back and brought him behind the fence. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Rashad? You don't just run out there to fight the undead like a rabble of bandits!"
"I don't care, Inia's gonna end up on that cart when it comes back!"
"That's the Benefactor's daughter!" Jollum rasped. "Whatever's going on, she'll be immune. There's no point in risking your life for something that's already safe!"
"She's not safe with ME, and that's MY concern" Rashad spat back.
"But what about the plan?"Wyle asked.
Rashad turned to the carpenter and said, "Damned Benefactor isn't following the plan, so why should I? I'm going out there to get her and I'll need back up. You with me?"
Cyan weighed the chances of survival in his head briefly and said, "Fine, I'll follow you and back you up. We're gonna need weapons."
"Mark the number down by one on the weapons count," Rashad said as he drew the Rock Sword from the sack, "I've got my own."
"What?" Jollum sputtered. "You brought a weapon onto my work site?"
Wyle stopped the foreman with "Now's not the time, sir."
The entire time the exchange went on, Barcrab had extended his eyestalks over the fence and saw the group of ghouls headed for the construction site. He spoke in his bass voice, "GUYS, THE GHOULS…"
"Good! It looks like it's of Draconian make. You any good with it?" Cyan cut in as he hefted his own shovel.
"Watch me" Rashad said and turned to face the ghouls, as they stared in murderous ignorance with dead eyes. He matched their stare with one of burning defiance and brought his sword to bear.
.......................................................
Strapping on fresh gloves for what seemed to be the umpteenth time this afternoon, Blackheart went to meet the remainder of the cargo brought up from Karmor's Bend. The necromancer whistled a macabre tune in the chilled subterranean air as she approached the charnel chamber, where the "leftovers" were housed for the moment. She smiled when she reached the door and overheard the scared locals speaking amongst themselves in hushed tones.
"…was supposed to be at Egress today, can you believe…"
"…Oh Toren, why me…"
"…done nothing to deserve this…"
"…baby, it'll be over soon. The Benefactor's got us over for a surprise, you'll see…"
"…bitch'll never know what hit her…"
What.
Beckoning for two ghouls to aid her in her act, she opened the door and said, "Whom are you calling a bitch?"
The townsfolk froze. They all had looks of shock on their faces, from the adults to the small child sitting inside the chamber. One of the captured townsfolk had the nerve to rush Blackheart, screaming, "Let us go!"
A ghoul caught the would-be attacker and threw him against the wall. The ghouls moved to attack, but Blackheart waved them off. "No. If this elf wants to be free, he's got to get past me." She drew a shining silver dagger with a skull pommel from her waistband and said, "Whenever you're ready, elf."
The shirtless and well-muscled elven male charged again and said, "I'll kill you, you monster!" He caught Blackheart in her midsection and tackled her to the ground. His hand wrapped around her neck and her blade hand as he said, "You let us go or I swear by Syfalhalla, I'll kill you…"
Blackheart couldn't hear him because she was in the middle of trying to struggle loose. As his hand closed about her neck, she looked at the elf strangling her and he wasn't the same. He was--
NO. NOT AGAIN. NEVER AGAIN.
She saw the jeering grins and the lustful eyes all over again, hands holding her down and apart, the helpless struggling made all the more so from drink. She heard the mocking laughter, the endless string of names--CUTIE HONEY BABY BITCH SLUT WHORE--and those last words said to her as the pain ebbed away only to come back in a new form of shame: "Damned worthless gutter trash didn't even do the job right, man."
Man. Men. Males. All of them. Worthless. Gutter trash. Nothing.
A rage born of intolerance and vengeance washed over Blackheart as she began to overpower the elf, pushing against his weight with her own inner strength. When she was able to sit up, she spat in his face and wrenched her blade hand free of his grip. She slashed him across his arm and took initiative when he rolled onto his back. Blackheart straddled him and brought the dagger into his chest over and over again. The flash of the blade was soon marred by the crimson staining from the elf's blood. Even after the elf was dead, she continued to bury the dagger deeper and deeper into his chest. The necromancer didn't stop stabbing until the blood began to seep into the gloves, and when she stopped the townsfolk watched in horror as they got a good look at their Benefactor.
With her skin flush and her hair and eyes wild from the fight, Blackheart looked the part of the idea that she instilled in the townsfolk: a woman possessed by devils and mad with hatred for all that lived. Tugging her right glove off, she smoothed her hair back into a coif with the elven blood on her sticky hands. The necromancer rose, straightened her black dress and wiped the blood off her blade with two fingers. She took that blood and put it in a vial, mumbling, "Every drop, every last drop will be used for my master."
"Madam, dear madam," a woman cried. She was a human woman with blonde hair, older looking than her thirty years. She held in her arms a frightened boy, no older than four. The necromancer turned to hear the woman plea, "By Toren, what have we done to deserve this?" Blackheart looked at the woman and the child in her arms. Suddenly, she struck the woman full in the face with an open-handed slap. The weary mother looked back with bewildered eyes as her Benefactor gave her the only answer she felt obliged to give her "subjects":
"The worst thing you could have done. Nothing."
Turning away, she spoke to the ghouls. "Save as much blood as you can."
As she closed the door behind her, the ravenous ghouls made a singsong growl as they attacked the screaming townspeople. Focusing on her next task, she headed to the near end of the basement hall beneath Blackheart Estates. A door stood there, made of local blackwood and covered in huge locks. Blackheart ignored that door and reached down for a pull ring that led to a sub-basement. She descended the dark stairs without tracing her hand on the stair well; so familiar she was with this path. The necromancer took stock of the sight that greeted her when she entered the room and was pleased with the results of her work.
Sloping downward towards an underground edifice at the far end of the room, the hewn earth walls of the sub-basement contained glowing green transparent cocoons that held the bodies of ghoul-ravaged townsfolk. The majority of their blood had been taken from them soon after their murder; now their bodies would be drained of the lingering blood and fed into the ribbed tubes that led to the building that the necromancer walked towards in a relaxed fashion.
Pushing open a set of doors, Blackheart entered her special sanctuary. The high wall carvings, recessed halls and benches resembled a temple to the great god Hamar and his Assistant Toren, but the symbol of the god was perverted to match that of the Benefactor's dark lord. The evil symbol resembled a slit eye with three tentacles reaching for the sky, prominently displayed on the altar. Carved into the tableau of the altar was a stone basin with a hole in the bottom. Blackheart tested the plumbing of the altar by casting a spell. Blood rose from the hole in the basin and brimmed at the opening. She cancelled the spell, knowing that the pipes and pressures were working, as they should.
Looking at the sanctuary, from the tapestries to the carvings close to the high celing, Blackheart felt a profound sense of accomplishment. It had taken so long to amass all this material to facilitate her master's arrival. She knew it would be worth it, for it was her master--her Benefactor--who had given her new purpose in life when she teetered on the edge of oblivion. The time would come so soon: she could hardly wait to release her master from the ethereal prison.
And then the world would know what she knew intimately.
